I Tried My First Edible in My Fifties, And This is What I Learned
Middle-aged girls just wanna have fun too
I had a really straight-laced upbringing. My dad was a cop who worked for the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. He drank daily but was a firm “do as I say, not as I do” parent who stood behind the “just say no” sentiment.
To teach us about the perils of drug addiction, we had a “drug education kit.” It was a little shadow-box “book” with a gold cover that sat on a shelf in the dining room. Beneath a plastic sheet were replicas of drugs and explanations. Barbiturates (downers), amphetamines (uppers), and a picture of a marijuana leaf— that’s really all I remember. As a pre-teen, I vowed to stay away.
That lasted until I was about 14 when I did eventually try weed.
The first time, I was 14, and my boyfriend supplied some fake-ass joints. I had more of a buzz from the tall can of Olde English than from the weed. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t so straight-laced.
The second time I tried it, I was 17, and the shit was real. A coworker and his friend invited me to smoke with them in their parked car. The only thing I remember is that they were in the front seat talking for what felt like hours and when I looked at the clock, only five minutes had passed.
